


Some Things Stay the Same

by fairyroses



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: (and other kisses after that), (please do not attempt this. please go to an actual doctor if you have a GSW to the shoulder), Adapting to Change While Trying to Maintain a Relationship, Brief Cameos from Other Characters, Cheesy Holiday Riddles, Christmas Fluff, DIY Physical Therapy (courtesy of Ed playing doctor), First Kiss, Friendship & Romance, Gratuitous Domesticity, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More Angst Than Initially Planned, Romantic Piano Lessons, Sorta Slow Burn-ish?, Time Skip (from season 2 to season 3), a weird mix of Fluff and Actual Fic, but there will be a happy ending, this is what I get for trying to keep these two in-character, yes this is a Christmas Fic okay don't judge me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-08 06:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8833495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairyroses/pseuds/fairyroses
Summary: A lot can change from one year to the next. But some things stay the same.Or, the consecutive tales of Ed and Oswald's first two Christmases together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was supposed to be a short and fluffy Christmas-themed oneshot somehow expanded into...this. I did not go into this planning to write an Actual Fic of this length and depth, and yet here we are. Hopefully y'all will like it anyway?

Oswald couldn’t help but stare.

It wasn’t exactly his fault, mind. Despite all the clutter, there was nothing of particular interest to him in Edward Nygma’s tiny apartment—nothing, that is, except Ed himself, who was currently scampering around like an excited child, stringing twinkling lights from wall to wall. It was awfully distracting.

Oswald had been unceremoniously awoken that morning—the morning of December 1st, he would later realize—by a loud _crash,_ accompanied by a strangled yelp of pain. Once he’d convinced his heart to stop pounding and remembered where he was, he’d deduced that the noises had come from Ed, in response to him dropping a large box of holiday decorations directly onto his own foot.

No danger, then. Just clumsiness.

Since that point, Oswald had sat up in bed and silently observed as Ed began meticulously transforming his one-room apartment into a certifiable explosion of Christmas. A small radio on a shelf was playing popular holiday songs, and Ed sang along as he worked.

Oswald noted, not for the first time, that he had a rather nice singing voice.

The man was a marvel, really. Lanky and awkward, yet still remarkably well put-together. His arms seemed to be reaching everywhere at once, and his feet were constantly moving. Oswald had never seen anyone with so much energy. Every now and then he would pause and spin around to catch Oswald’s eye, a grin splitting his face.

“What do you think?” he’d ask, gesturing to whatever decoration he had just added, and Oswald would nod and do his best to smile approvingly. True smiles were hard to come by these days, but he was willing to fake it for Ed’s sake. He didn’t want Ed to be disappointed in his lack of enthusiasm—or worse, be worried about him.

He had already done so much that Oswald could not justify asking anything more of him, least of all emotional support.

But Oswald could not stop his chest from aching at the sight of so much festivity and joy. There would be no cheer for him this Christmas, he was already sure of it.

After an hour or so, he made the mistake of trying to adjust his position on the bed in order to relieve some stiffness in his bad leg, using his arms to brace himself as he normally would. Everything seemed fine at first, until his right shoulder shifted just the wrong way. A shock of pain rocketed from his neck straight down his arm. He winced, cradling his arm to his chest, and sucked in a series of harsh breaths in lieu of actually crying out, trying not to draw attention to himself. But Ed must have heard him regardless, for he was rushing to his side in a heartbeat.

“Easy, easy, don’t push yourself,” he said, hands hovering between them, a benign threat to physically hold Oswald down if he attempted to move.

“Don’t worry,” Oswald groaned as the pain began to dull to a steady throb. “That will _not_ be happening again.”

“Here, let me help—” This time Ed _did_ put his hands on Oswald—just slightly above his waist, to be exact—and the latter could not stop his face from flushing in embarrassment as Ed carefully shifted him into a more comfortable sitting position. The warmth of his hands radiated through Oswald’s sleeping clothes.

“Better?” he asked, and damn it all, Oswald couldn’t even be angry with Ed for treating him like an incompetent child. Not when he had such an earnest look on his face, at any rate.

“Yes,” Oswald replied honestly, and then swiftly added a quiet “Thank you,” because his mother had raised him to be nothing if not polite.

The thought was like an unexpected knife to his heart.

“...Mr. Penguin? What’s wrong? What hurts?”

Oswald blinked and shuddered, abruptly coming back to himself. He was breathing heavily—all but gasping, really—and as his left hand flew up to his face, he discovered wetness there.

He had started crying. _Again._

His gaze flickered over to Ed, who was sitting far too close to him on the bed, eyes wide and concerned behind his glasses. He was gripping Oswald’s good shoulder with one hand, holding him steady, as an anchor would for a ship lost at sea.

There was a part of Oswald that wanted to absorb Ed’s kindness like a sponge—to throw good sense out the window and fling his arms around this strange man who was quickly becoming a real friend. To bury his face in Ed’s chest and cry and cry until he had no tears left. But instead, Oswald simply tried to pull himself together as quickly and quietly as possible.

Ed’s speech from a few days ago still sat fresh in his memory, and so Oswald knew that he couldn’t voice what was actually wrong. He _was_ hurting, that much was true, but it wasn’t a physical hurt. He knew that Ed meant well, and that his words had been intended to help—a kind of tough love that Oswald could respect—but nevertheless, he really, _really_ did not need to hear another lecture about how he just needed to _get over_ his mother’s death. As if it was that easy. As if her death had been some kind of a _favor_ to him.

_Love is our most crippling weakness._

Ed’s words had shaken him down to his core, tearing apart everything he’d always believed about the importance of family. About fiercely and wholeheartedly loving those few who truly loved you back.

Maybe he _was_ weak because of it.

But he also had no idea how to survive without it.

“I’m fine,” he finally said, voice hoarse. Ed’s eyebrows furrowed, disbelieving, and Oswald hastily added, “Perhaps I am a little thirsty, though.”

This had Ed perking up.

“Oh, of course. Water?”

“Sure.”

“What about food? Are you hungry? I’ve been so busy decorating, I didn’t even think—”

Oswald held up a hand to stop Ed’s forthcoming apology, and then paused, considering the offer.

“I…” Truthfully, he hadn’t had much of an appetite since…well. But cooking would at least distract Ed, and halt his obsessive decorating for a while—hopefully until the sight of twinkling Christmas lights no longer made Oswald want to bawl pathetically. “I suppose I could eat.”

Ed grinned.

“I’ll make you some soup. Does soup sound okay?” Oswald had barely opened his mouth to reply before Ed was hurtling off the bed and all but bounding towards the kitchen. “There’s a new recipe that I’ve been dying to try out—I think you’ll like it. Just trust me!”

 

* * *

  

Ed’s soup was surprisingly delicious.

Oswald had no idea what was in it, but it slid smoothly down his throat and warmed his insides, and that was enough for him. He licked his lips, capturing the stray sauce lingering there, and his tongue tingled with a hint of spiciness. Was that _mustard_ he was tasting?

Oswald hadn’t realized how much food could actually lift his spirits until he found himself muffling a genuine snort of amusement at the sight of Ed securing a Santa hat onto the skull of his skeleton model. He took a few steps back, one long finger tapping on his chin, considering the hat with far too serious of an expression on his face, and Oswald had to look back down at his soup in order to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

That smile drooped, however, and was quickly replaced with a frustrated frown as he attempted to eat another spoonful of soup, this time with his right hand instead of his left. His hand held the spoon awkwardly, its grip loose and shaky, and more of the soup spilled back into the bowl than actually made it to his mouth. Oswald resisted the sudden urge to bang his head against the wall behind him.

He had been punched, beaten, and stabbed before—knocked down time and time again—and yet nothing could quite compare to the physical and mental agony of being shot in the back with a high-powered sniper rifle. Ed had insisted that he was lucky—that the bullet had merely _grazed_ him, and thus had not broken any bones or struck any major arteries. That he should be _thankful_ , because all he seemed to have was some minor nerve damage to his shoulder…and apparently, by extension, to his arm and hand.

Oswald didn’t feel thankful, though. He felt unbelievably frustrated.

His bad leg was one thing—it was inconvenient, certainly, but Oswald had developed a high pain tolerance over the years, and ultimately it did not impede upon his ability to do business on most days. Losing fine motor control in his dominant hand, however—perhaps permanently—was utterly unfathomable in his line of work.

How could he ever hope to accurately fire a gun or slit a man’s throat again if he couldn’t even hold a damned spoon? If he couldn’t lift his arm for more than a few seconds at a time?

“Ed?” Oswald found himself calling, and it was only when Ed turned to look at him, delighted surprise crossing his features at the use of his first name, that Oswald realized he didn’t actually know why he’d gotten the man’s attention in the first place.

“Yes, Mr. Penguin?”

“…Do you have something soft I could squeeze?”

The words fell out of Oswald’s mouth before his brain had a chance to process them, and clearly they were not what Ed had expected to hear, given the way his eyebrows immediately shot up into his hairline.

“Do I…w-what?” Ed stammered, his glasses sliding halfway down his nose.

Oswald tried to tell himself that the redness suddenly blossoming across the tops of Ed’s cheeks was a byproduct of his aggressive decorating, but he had a sinking suspicion that that wasn’t the case. He felt his own face flushing as he stumbled to course-correct.

“I meant as…exercise. You know, for my hand and arm. And shoulder. To strengthen them. I need something softer than a spoon, and easier to hold. Something that I can…well, that I can squeeze, frankly.”

“Oh…Oh! Right, yes, of course,” Ed babbled, an index finger quickly coming up to push his glasses back into their proper place. “That makes…much more sense.” He nodded several times, seemingly to himself. “A perfectly reasonable request. Just let me, um, let me find something suitable.”

He scurried off to the nearest closet, and Oswald was already beginning to regret this idea.

A few minutes later Ed returned with an armful of…junk, really, though he looked so pleased with himself that Oswald couldn’t muster the heart to tell him so.

“It’s brilliant, honestly,” Ed was saying as he walked back into the room. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier myself! Physical therapy is a crucial part of the healing process after all, and with a proper exercise regiment you’ll be back to your old self in a few months…so long as the nerve damage isn’t permanent, of course.”

“Of course,” Oswald echoed weakly as Ed proceeded to dump the pile of junk directly onto his lap. Most of the items were instantly recognizable, yet Ed apparently felt the need to explain them anyway.

“Okay, so, these rubber bands can be used for resistance training, and the stress balls are for grip strength, as is the tennis ball. The marbles can be rolled between your fingers to improve their deftness, see, and the three pound barbell is for strengthening the muscles of your arm once your actual wound heals up a bit more…oh, and of course, daily stretching will also be required, which I will _gladly_ assist you with…”

Oswald would have vocally protested against that last bit if he’d still been listening. But unfortunately, he had zoned out somewhere around “stress balls,” instead choosing to inspect the items on his own.

“What’s that?” he eventually asked, cutting Ed off. One particular trinket had caught his eye—the only one of the bunch that he couldn’t identify himself.

“You mean…this?” Ed carefully picked up the multicolored cube that Oswald had been pointing to. “Mr. Penguin…have you never seen a Rubik’s Cube before?”

He looked mildly horrified at the prospect.

“…No?”

Ed’s mouth dropped open and he clutched the cube to his chest, as if to protect it. Oswald rolled his eyes at the theatrics, instantly grumpy.

“How’s that silly thing supposed to help me anyway?” he muttered, crossing his arms with a childish pout.

Ed tilted his head, as if considering something, and then smiled.

“Here,” he said, plopping down onto the bed beside Oswald without an ounce of hesitation, one leg dangling off the edge. “Let me show you! It’s simple, really…”

 

* * *

 

Barely twenty-four hours later, and Oswald had already grown to hate the Rubik’s Cube.

 _Simple._ Ed had said that it was _simple._ And he had made it look so _easy_ , too—solving the puzzle in what must have been under a minute, fingers flying and wrists twisting with practiced ease. Oswald, however, had been steadily working on the cube for hours now, and it was just as mixed up as it had been originally.

While it was certainly doing its job of exercising his wrist and refining the dexterity in his fingers, the lack of payoff from the constant twisting motions was starting to get on Oswald’s nerves. This was _hopeless._

After another minute he finally gave up, tossing the cube to the side and burying his head into his pillow with a groan.

It was Monday. Ed was back at work, and Oswald was _bored._

He hadn’t had much opportunity to be bored last week, too busy drifting in and out of consciousness, but now he was fully awake and had nothing to do. He eyed the cell phone sitting on the bedside table— _for emergencies only,_ Ed had said, giving him a stern look—but ultimately decided against using it.

Who would he even call? _Ed?_ To tell him _what_ , exactly?

Any answer that Oswald managed to come up with only made him seem that much more pathetic.

_I’m starving and there’s no more soup left. Please come back here immediately and make me some more._

_You don’t happen to have another Leonard hidden in your closet, do you? Would you mind picking one up on your way home?_

_This place is oddly quiet without you, you know. You and your awful Christmas music._

_You’ve only been gone for a few hours and I think I might actually miss you—is that sad?_

It _was_ sad—bordering on desperate, even.

It simply wasn’t good for him to be cooped up like this, Oswald decided. He felt agitated, trapped. Like a bird in a cage.

“Penguins don’t fare well in captivity,” he muttered, and then groaned all over again at the awful pun. Never mind the fact that he was beginning to talk to himself.

This was getting out of hand. Oswald _seriously_ needed to find something to occupy his mind with. Specifically something that wouldn’t make him want to tear his own hair out, he mentally amended, glaring once again at the Rubik’s Cube.

With a fair bit of effort, he finally dragged himself out of bed, hissing out a painful breath as he stood. Walking was even more of a struggle now, as both of his right limbs were currently stinging with nerve pain instead of just the usual leg. Thankfully, though, Ed had given him some powerful medication that morning, which had dulled the throbbing of his torn-apart shoulder into something more manageable.

Oswald didn’t know where Ed had gotten the hospital-grade meds, and he hadn’t asked. At this point, any source of pain relief would be gladly accepted without question, his dignity be damned.

Without any real goal or destination in mind, he began wandering around the apartment, inspecting the items on Ed’s shelves and opening all of his drawers. Perhaps it was rude to go through another man’s personal belongings, but, well, frankly Oswald just didn’t care. If he was going to be staying here, in part against his will, he figured he was well within his rights to learn as much about Edward Nygma as he could.

Everything in the apartment seemed to be largely unrelated, likely accumulated over the course of several years. Nothing matched. Not the chairs, not the light fixtures, and not the color scheme. Most of the objects in the room were old, practically antiques—two exceptions to this being a modern telephone, and what appeared to be a video game console. The pots and pans in the kitchen area were new and gleaming, as well.

So then, Oswald concluded, the aged items were not an indication of destitution, but rather an odd kind of aesthetic preference.

After inspecting the rows of scientific glassware in Ed’s cabinet, Oswald switched to digging through the clothes in Ed’s drawers, careful not to leave any indication of a disturbance behind him. Nearly everything was earth-toned, with the occasional hint of plaid. Far too much green for Oswald’s tastes. Utterly plain. Boring, even.

But then he thought of Ed, who Ed _actually_ was, and a new word suddenly came to mind: _Unassuming_.

No one at the GCPD would ever suspect that their plain, unassuming forensic scientist was a serial murderer.

It was a brilliant, natural cover.

Of course, with all the tacky Christmas decorations currently strewn about the apartment, it was hard to believe that Ed actually _was_ a murderer. Oswald wasn’t sure he would have believed it if he hadn’t seen it for himself a few days ago.

The cheerful Ed who sang along to the radio while stringing up twinkling lights was certainly not an act, and yet that cheerfulness could just as easily be replaced with cold anger, manic glee, or cruel violence.

The combination made Ed fascinating, terrifying, and thrilling all at once.

Suddenly a noise interrupted Oswald’s investigations, and he nearly jumped out of his skin until he recognized the steady, yet unnerving _cuckoo! cuckoo!_ of Ed’s clock. Oswald glared in the general direction of that atrocious excuse for a timekeeper. Oh, how he _hated_ that thing. He had half a mind to just smash it and try to pass the destruction off as an accident later.

However, a part of him—the sensible part, the part that had not yet fallen prey to Ed's disarming and awkward charms—was still not entirely convinced that Ed wouldn’t eventually try to kill him. Right now he seemed to want Oswald’s advice, he had _use_ for him, but if Oswald did something wrong, something to disrupt the hero-fantasy that Ed had constructed around him…well. He didn’t want to think about that. Especially after seeing the way Ed had gleefully tortured Mr. Leonard.

Oswald abruptly decided to leave the cuckoo clock alone. For now.

He finished his circuit of the apartment, pausing to run his fingers along one rough, unfinished wall. Thinking. Those same fingers slowly trailed down, eventually brushing across the smooth, familiar ivory of Ed's piano keys. The fingers of his left hand gently pressed down, one-by-one, and Oswald let out a slow breath, eyes slipping closed at the chorus of sounds. Out of everything in this godforsaken apartment, _this_ felt the most like home.

He limped around the bench and sat himself down, then froze, his throat closing at the sight of his right hand hovering over the keys. Still shaky—his fingers not quite willing to listen to him. The pain in his shoulder suddenly flared, pounding along with his heartbeat.

He forced his eyes shut once again. _Don’t look. Don’t even think about it._ He took one breath, then another, allowing his mind to wander until he was no longer in Edward Nygma’s apartment.

No, he was back at his nightclub. His successful nightclub, which his mother visited at least four nights per week.

He knew the following song by heart, so of course there was no need to open his eyes. No need to disrupt the fantasy.

Letting muscle memory guide his hands, Oswald began to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you've probably noticed, this fic starts on December 1st. For the sake of the Christmas theme (and more accurate healing, on Oswald's part), I've decided to put the entire month of December between episodes 2x09 and 2x10. This is probably a lot larger span of time than what was canonically implied, but I don't care lol. The fact that Oswald was fully healed after like a week on the show is unrealistic as hell anyways, so...yeah. A month-long stay it is! 
> 
> Anyway, feel free to comment and let me know what you think so far!
> 
> (Also feel free to kick my ass and/or yell at me if I don't update this within a week or so.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delayed update! The holidays were much busier than I expected them to be. Thank you to everyone who's read and left kudos so far, though! :)

“Oh my—!”

Oswald jumped at the voice, and an unpleasant cacophony of notes exploded from the piano as he snatched his hands away from the keys. His eyes flew open, head snapping to the side, and he froze at the sight of Ed standing in the doorway, wearing a well-fitted plaid coat and a knit hat—visual reminders of winter’s rapid approach. He looked as startled as Oswald felt.

Somehow, Oswald had not heard the incessant chime of the cuckoo clock indicating the passage of time, nor the sound of Ed’s keys jingling in the lock. He’d even missed the unholy clatter of the apartment’s metal door grinding open.

And yet that quiet exclamation of surprise tumbling from Ed’s lips might as well have been a gunshot.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Oswald snapped, far more harshly than was warranted. Obviously rattled, though for no good reason.

Ed simply stared at him, momentarily thrown by the outburst. Then his brows furrowed in what could have been confusion or indignation. Maybe a combination of both.

“This is _my_ apartment,” he said slowly, as if Oswald were an idiot. He even pointed at the ground beneath his feet to drive the point home.

“No, I—I _know_ that, _obviously._ ” Oswald sputtered at the miscommunication. “I meant, what are you doing here _now?_ What time is it?”

Ed pulled back the sleeve of his coat in order to check the watch on his wrist.

“It’s a minute past noon. Why?”

“Well…it’s just…” Oswald scrambled for a legitimate-sounding accusation, but his normally sharp mind seemed to have taken an unscheduled vacation. “S-Shouldn’t you be at work? Or something?”

Oswald wasn’t too well-versed in normal business schedules, but he was fairly certain that the average person couldn't just walk away from their job in the middle of the day. Especially if such an action resulted in them shocking the living hell out of the person currently residing in their apartment. Interrupting that person’s private piano playing…

It was just plain _rude_.

“ _Oh_.” Understanding suddenly swept across Ed’s face and he smiled, visibly relaxing, which only made Oswald prickle more. “No, no, this my lunch break. Normally I wouldn’t come home, but I need to change your bandages, so…here I am.” He shrugged helplessly. “I know that’s no fun for you, but it needs to be done.”

Oswald abruptly deflated, any additional accusations dying in his throat. Ed had come back here for him—to take care of him, as he’d been doing this entire time. He felt rather guilty for snapping at the other man now, an emotion that he was not at all predisposed to. It felt like an alien parasite, sneaking its way under his skin. Making him itch. 

That feeling only grew in intensity when Ed held up a paper bag clutched in one of his hands and added, “I brought takeout to make up for it, though! Your favorite. I figured we could eat together…” He trailed off, feet shuffling shyly. “You know…if you wanted.”

Though Oswald was still flustered by Ed’s unexpected appearance, his traitorous stomach rumbled at the sight of the grease-drenched bag, and he found himself nodding in response to Ed’s offer.

To his inexplicable relief, the piano was not mentioned once during lunch.

 

* * *

  

It became a routine of sorts, their lunches together.

They always sat and ate first, well aware of the rapid cooling time of fast food. Most often it was Chinese, which they both enjoyed, but sometimes Ed picked up Thai, or burgers, seemingly determined to provide Oswald with variety instead of monotony. Once they’d even attempted Italian, which had turned out to be a dreadful mess, never to be repeated—with the sole exception of pizza, which they both agreed didn’t exactly count as Italian anyway.

They sat at Ed’s small table to eat, and chatted between bites. Ed was willing to talk about anything and everything, often overloading Oswald with ‘fun facts’ within the first few minutes, seemingly bursting with the desire to converse with another human being. This early portion of their lunch normally consisted of Oswald nodding in feigned interest over whatever Ed saw fit to inform him about today, more captivated by the shining excitement in Ed’s eyes than the topic of conversation.

Ed typically calmed once they started eating in earnest, eventually switching to discussions that were much more Oswald’s speed—that is, slower than 10 words per second.

For someone with few friends, Ed seemed to know all the goings-on of the GCPD, and while Oswald generally considered himself above simple office gossip, the way in which Ed told his stories—leaned forward, voice hushed, as if he were letting Oswald in on a secret—somehow made the drama-filled tales infinitely more entertaining.

There was also some comfort in the knowledge that behind closed doors, Gotham’s esteemed police officers behaved little better than petty teenagers. Oswald couldn’t help but imagine it as a glorified high school. There were the popular girls. The jocks. The bullies. The burnouts. And even, he thought as he glanced across the table at Ed, the nerds.

After a day or two of chatter, Ed finally came around to the topic of Jim Gordon. Oswald had known this would happen eventually—after all, Ed seemed to be steadily making his way through the entire GCPD staff. He informed Oswald that Jim was currently seeing the precinct’s new—and, in Ed’s opinion, “very nice”—Medical Examiner. They had become the talk of the GCPD ever since they’d confirmed their relationship...with a public kiss, no less.

Ed snickered at Jim’s lack of subtlety prior to this event, proudly informing Oswald that he’d known about the relationship all along, the time he spent working in Doctor Thompkins’ lab providing the perfect means of observation and discovery. Oswald attempted to laugh along with him, but couldn’t quite manage it.

He really did not care to hear about Jim’s oh-so-successful love life, and all the beautiful women he was publicly kissing. He secretly hoped that that was all, and that Ed would simply move on to the next detective.

No such luck. That first mention of Jim led to a series of tangents from Ed, in which he regaled Oswald with tales of Jim’s heroics. Oswald knew about most of the cases already, but as saying such would be tantamount to admitting that he followed Jim’s career through the papers, he kept that information to himself. 

There was something different about Ed’s voice when he spoke of Jim that was setting Oswald on edge, though. A warmth that hadn’t been there previously. It sent discomfort skittering down his spine.

It wasn’t until the stories switched to daily interactions at the precinct—Jim always answering Ed’s riddles, giving him the time of day when no one else would, going to him for help, even the double date they had partaken in—that Oswald realized what was bothering him.

Ed and Jim were clearly _friends._ Work friends, maybe, but still. Friends. 

Something in his chest was hurting. Some unidentified emotion that was making it hard to swallow.

“Could we not discuss Ji— _Detective Gordon_ any more, please?” Oswald interrupted towards the end of their meal that day, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. For the first time, he had not eaten all of his food, and now he was sure he wouldn’t finish it. Jim’s official title had left a sour taste in his mouth.

Ed gave him a searching look for a moment, and then nodded.

“Of course. Consider the subject dropped.”

Oswald let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and that mysterious _something_ in his chest loosened at Ed’s quick, easy acceptance of his request. At the lack of a required explanation. At the lack of a bargain.

 _That’s what real trust looks like,_ a voice in the back of his head whispered. _Something Jim never gave you._

He obstinately ignored any and all implications of that thought. Thoughts such as that one led down dangerous roads, the likes of which Oswald would rather not travel.

In the beginning, Ed did most of the talking during lunch, with Oswald interjecting an occasional comment to prove he was still listening. This arrangement worked perfectly fine, as Ed seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice, and Oswald had grown to enjoy the way Ed’s dark eyes brightened whenever he spoke about something that interested him. But as the days went by, filled with good food and genuine conversations, Oswald’s reserved exterior began to crack and melt, and as a result his lips loosened considerably.

He began by describing the structure of Gotham’s underworld, the who’s-who of the various crime families. He made it clear who could be trusted—and who could not. He found himself telling Ed the story of his own rise to power, filling in the blanks of what Ed already knew—which, to Oswald’s surprise, was quite a lot.

“I snuck into the Captain’s office and read your file,” Ed explained around a mouthful of noodles, in answer to Oswald’s unspoken question on the matter.

Oswald didn't know whether to be impressed by Ed’s resourcefulness, or uncomfortable with what felt like an invasion of his privacy—the latter of which being a ridiculous notion, of course, given that multiple people had undoubtedly read his file before Ed, including all of Jim’s cop friends.

(Jim had probably _written_ most of it, for Christ’s sake. And if _that_ wasn’t an invasion of his privacy, then Oswald wasn’t sure what was.)

Speaking of privacy, though, Ed had shown time and time again that he had little to no sense of it. He was constantly entering Oswald's personal space—always sitting too close, never hesitating to touch—and yet somehow the invasions never came off as intentional. No, Ed was just...incredibly _comfortable_ being close to Oswald, a fact that Oswald had absolutely no idea how interpret, much less verbally address. So instead he just tried to ignore the behavior as best he could, hoping it would lessen over time.

It didn't. 

However, Ed at least seemed to recognize that, for Oswald, certain topics were private, personal, and thus not meant for lunchtime discussion. Such topics included his childhood. His life outside of crime. His mother. (And, oddly enough, the piano.)

Ed never asked about them, and Oswald never told him a thing.

Perhaps he thought that not mentioning Gertrude would make it easier for Oswald to forget her. To move on. 

He would have been wrong, of course, but Oswald wasn't about to tell him that. 

Whatever Ed's reasoning, Oswald was grateful at first for even the smallest modicum of space. But as time continued marching on, a small part of him was growing, one that yearned to let it all out—to let Ed in further than he had let anyone else before. Something about that welcoming smile. The genuine interest in his words. Those non-judgmental eyes.

A wealth of stories—some happy, some sad—came to sit at the tip of his tongue, begging to be released. It was not in Oswald’s nature, however, to reveal things unprompted. He liked to hold his cards close to his chest, where they could be protected and dealt appropriately.

So he sat, and ate, and talked about nothing truly important, and the metaphorical door into his heart remained snugly shut.

 

* * *

 

Once their stomachs were full, Ed set about changing Oswald’s bandages. The actual steps to this were fairly straightforward: remove the old bandages, gently clean the stitched-up wound with soap and water, pat it dry, and then put on new bandages, with multiple hand-washings dispersed throughout to prevent the spread of infection. Simple. However, the process nevertheless tended to be a laborious one, largely due to Oswald’s insistence on being uncooperative—immediately shifting from an agreeable eating companion to a stubborn patient the moment Ed brought out the medical supplies.

They were stuffed into Ed's tiny bathroom, a small space that was absolutely not made to accommodate two people at once. It was the most sterile option, though, Ed had assured him.

Oswald, forced to sit on a closed toilet seat while Ed worked on him, staunchly disagreed with this assessment—not that Ed cared.

He sounded particularly exasperated today.

“Please, Mr. Penguin, just take it off. We do this twice a day, every day. There’s really no need to be difficult anymore.”

Sound logic, of course. But Oswald merely hunched his shoulders and grumbled in irritation. He _hated_ this. Every minute of it. It wasn’t easy for him, so he wasn’t going to make it easy for Ed, either.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, you know.”

He did know. That didn’t make it any better. He still hadn't forgiven Ed for undressing him while he was unconscious, now that he thought of it. 

Ed was getting frustrated now. Oswald could hear it in the form of a sharp, dangerous edge to his voice _—_ a clear indication of poorly concealed anger.

“Oswald  _please,_ for the love of _—_ ”

Oswald blinked, startled out of his grumpiness.

“Did you just call me ‘Oswald’?”

His voice was light, rather than snappish—too genuinely surprised to be angry. He tried to remember if he’d ever heard Ed say his name before, and couldn’t. So few people called him _Oswald_ anymore…

Things suddenly became very quiet behind him.

“Ed?” Oswald called, and at first all he received in response was a sharp intake of breath.

When Ed finally spoke, his voice was willowy in a way that Oswald had never heard before. “I am… _so_ sorry, Mr. Penguin. I—I didn’t mean to—”

Oswald tried to look over his shoulder at Ed, and only succeeded in sending a wave of pain down his arm as the nerves running from his neck to his shoulder protested the action. Wincing, he mumbled, “Ed, it’s…it’s okay, it was just a slip of the tongue—”

“No!” Ed snapped, desperation laced through the word. Scrambling for control. “No no no. I overstepped my bounds. It was inappropriate, and it won’t happen again. _Ever_. I…I promise.”

Oswald stilled. He didn’t know what to say to that.

So instead he wordlessly complied with Ed’s original request, and set about unbuttoning his pajama top. He slid the material off his back when he was done, exposing the carefully wrapped bandages that crisscrossed his upper torso.

Days ago, when they’d done this for the first time, he’d asked Ed what kind of experience he had with wrapping bandages and dressing wounds.

 _“Oh, uh, well…I have experience with gift-wrapping. Does that count?”_ Ed had said in response, which had elicited a panicked squawk of “ _What?_ ” from Oswald. Was he really sitting here, about to entrust his body to a man who equated him with a _Christmas gift?_

Ed had laughed, then—not a maniacal laugh, but a truly pleased one _—_ and Oswald had unexpectedly thought of the piano. The pure sound of a single, well-tuned note.

 _“Don’t worry, that was just a joke. I’ve done a lot of studying on proper bandaging techniques,”_ he’d said. _“So fear not! You are in good hands, Mr. Penguin. I promise.”_

Promises, promises…

“Go ahead,” Oswald said now, voice soft. Disheartened for a reason he couldn’t quite name. “Change the bandages.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Ed obeyed, and began by peeling back the strips of tape holding the wrappings in place, before unraveling the dirtied strips of cloth with practiced ease. He remained uncharacteristically quiet for the remainder of his lunch break, though.

Oswald became significantly less difficult of a patient after that day. He wondered if Ed noticed. 

 

* * *

  

Slowly but surely, Oswald’s injury began to heal. The constant, pulsing pain had lessened, replaced by stiffness—a bunching of his muscles that often left his flexibility nearly non-existent. Ed had insisted that he begin stretching his shoulder daily, to keep the muscles limber as they repaired themselves. This was usually done in the evenings, after dinner and before Oswald retired for the night.

His fingers still shook, and his grip strength remained weaker than average, but overall, things were improving. Even a pessimist like Oswald could see that his hand had started listening to him again. On good days, he had little trouble squeezing a stress ball or rolling a marble between two fingers. Feeling particularly motivated one morning, he had even taken another crack at the Rubik’s Cube—only to find it still unsolvable, of course. But that mattered little in the wake of all his progress.

However, it seemed that to counteract every good day, there were guaranteed to be bad days.

Today was one such day. Oswald had slept crookedly, leaving his shoulder stiffer than usual, pain crackling down his arm every time he attempted to move it. He could barely draw his hand into a fist. It felt like all of his progress had been suddenly nullified, putting him back at square one. Not even the Chinese food that Ed had brought for lunch could cheer him up.

“Look!” Ed gasped in delight as he dug through the takeout bag. “Look at the fortune cookies! They’re dyed red and green for Christmas!” He held up a few for Oswald to see, grinning from ear to ear. “Isn’t that neat? I love seeing local businesses get into the holiday spirit. And so creatively, too!”

“What a treat,” Oswald muttered, distracted. He eyed his chopsticks with growing dread.

Ed continued chattering happily as he unpacked his meal. “Did you know fortune cookies aren’t actually Chinese in origin? There are conflicting accounts regarding which individual was actually responsible for its initial creation and distribution, but it’s generally agreed upon that the modern fortune cookie was first developed in California, therefore making it an entirely American invention. In fact,” he added, breaking one of the green cookies open. “The trend never really caught on in China at all! Funny how these things happen, isn’t it?”

He squinted down at the small slip of paper now clutched in his hands.

“Hmm…‘ _A smile is your passport into the hearts of others_.’” Ed visibly brightened. “That’s actually true! It’s so nice when I get scientifically accurate fortunes. You see, smiling prompts the release of dopamine, serotonin, and endorphins, which all help make you feel happier, and when someone else sees you smile they feel compelled to mimic the expression, which makes _them_ happier as well—thus endearing you to them. Very useful for both genuine friendships _and_ calculated manipulations…”

Ed’s rambling continued, but Oswald had stopped listening, instead focusing his attention on a singular goal: holding his chopsticks correctly.

His fingers twitched around the thin pieces of wood, and he grit his teeth against the pain as he lifted them up, struggling to position them, anger rapidly swelling as one tumbled out of his grip and he had to scramble to pick it up. This was ridiculous. He could hold a damn pair of chopsticks. He’d done this a million times before. He’d done this _three days ago._ He could do it now. He could—

He gasped as a fresh wave of pain darted down his arm, causing the muscles in his hand to spasm and flex. One chopstick slipped out of its rightful place and fell to the floor, now dirtied and useless. The other, caught in his fist, cracked in two with a definitive _snap._

Oswald stared down at the splintered pieces of wood, frozen in disbelief, and suddenly found himself blinking back frustrated tears. He was so _tired_ of this. So incredibly tired. Was this destined to be his lot in life? One step forward, two steps back? Would he ever have comfort? Success? Happiness? The things his mother had always wanted for him?

It all seemed so far away now.

So caught up in himself as he was, Oswald didn’t even notice when Ed stopped talking, instead watching him with his eyebrows creased in concern. He didn’t notice when Ed stood, pushing his chair back with a small screech of metal. He didn’t see him make his way over to the kitchen area, dig through a drawer for a moment, or return to his seat.

No, Oswald only looked up, finally, when Ed wordlessly pushed a metal fork across the table, setting it beside Oswald’s takeout container. For a moment their gazes locked, shocked blue matched with dark brown, but then Ed was blinking, eyes flickering away, attention returning to his meal.

No muss, no fuss. No commentary on Oswald’s progress, or lack thereof. No mention of the moisture that had begun to gather at the corners of his eyes.

Oswald stared down at the fork, and felt his anger and despair melt away like a pile of day-old slush on a warm winter's afternoon. He swiped at his eyes and sniffled, just once, before picking up the utensil. Ed, of course, knew that on bad days Oswald tended to eat with his non-dominant hand. And while he had not yet learned to hold chopsticks in that hand, he was perfectly capable of holding a fork.

It was an impressive attention to detail, and reflected a kind of intimacy that Oswald was wholly unfamiliar with.

But he found he rather liked it.

Gripping the fork in his left hand, he successfully speared a piece of shrimp and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. Thinking. He swallowed, ran his thumb over the smooth, curved metal, and asked, “Ed?”

Ed paused, a pesky piece of onion caught between his own chopsticks.

“Yes, Mr. Penguin?”

Oswald’s lips twitched upward just a tad at that, gaze still lingering on the silver fork.

“I want you to call me Oswald,” he said.

The onion piece slipped from its place between Ed’s chopsticks and fell back into the takeout box. When Oswald looked up, Ed was staring at him, eyes wide behind his glasses.

“I…beg your pardon?”

“My name, Ed. From now on, I want you to call me by my first name.”

Oswald could practically see the wheels turning in Ed’s head, trying to figure out what this meant. Was it a test?

“Why?” he finally asked, after a moment’s pause.

Oswald opened his mouth, then closed it. He wasn’t sure if he actually had an answer to that. His request had been a spontaneous one, prompted by a feeling he was unsure if he could even name. A feeling that had been brewing for days, ever since Ed had accidentally called him ‘Oswald’ for the first time.

“Because I want you to,” was all he could come up with. It was the simplest explanation he could think of. But Ed tilted his head, lips twisting downward, and Oswald could tell he wasn’t satisfied with that answer. And of course he wasn’t—there was no logic behind it.

“What I mean is…” His brain stumbled forward blindly. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course,” Ed answered immediately, and the assuredness of his voice only bolstered Oswald’s resolve. He drove onward with startling recklessness.

“Well, then we should drop these silly formalities, don’t you think? I already call you by your name, so you should call me by mine. That’s what friends do. You’re my equal, not my employee.” He was rambling now, pulling excuses out of thin air. “Consider it a reward, if you want, for everything you’ve done for me. Or an early Christmas gift, since you seem to like that sort of thing. Whatever makes you happiest.” 

When he finally stopped talking, he was out of breath, and his heart was pounding. He held the fork in a vice grip.

_Please just accept it, please say yes, please don't argue or ask me to explain further..._

To his relief, the muscles of Ed’s face shifted just slightly. Loosening. Going slack. He must have said _something_ right within all of that. But what?

Ed was openly staring at him now, eyes alight with...hope? Admiration? Something else? Oswald's thoughts swirled at all the possible interpretations of that expression.

Ed's voice was breathless when he finally spoke. 

“You...consider me your equal?”

 _Ah_ , went Oswald's brain, scattered thoughts finally settling on something tangible. _There it is._

“Well...yes. I do.” And it was true, Oswald realized as he said it. “I wouldn’t be sitting here, wearing your pajamas and eating Chinese food with you if I didn’t. You have a mind unlike any I’ve seen before.”  _Aside from my own, of course,_ he internally quipped, but graciously decided to keep that comment to himself. Nobody liked a braggart. 

Ed practically _preened_  at his words. Oswald watched as he sat up a little straighter, a rarely seen confidence shining through in the form of a crooked smile. Ed suddenly looked as smart as he actually was—and from the upward tilt of his chin, he looked like he knew it, too. He looked... _professional_. Competent. Like a force to be reckoned with. It was a drastic physical transformation that Oswald hadn’t even remotely anticipated. And all over one simple compliment.

Oswald made a mental note to praise Ed more often. Who knew what he could be capable of after a proper confidence boost?

“That is _extremely_ flattering, Mr. P—” Oswald’s eyebrows rose, and suddenly the awkward, fumbling Ed that he was most familiar with reappeared. “I mean…O-Oswald. Mr. Oswald. Sir. Oh, _blast it_.” Ed grumbled to himself, slouching back down into his chair like a sulking child. He poked at a piece of chicken with his chopsticks, lips pressed into a pout, and mumbled, “What I’m trying to say is _thank you_.”

Oswald bit back a grin at the rosy color that had begun to stain Ed’s cheeks. Well, it was a start at least. They had plenty of time to work on the name thing.

“You’re welcome, friend." He paused. "And thank _you_ , too, by the way.”

Ed glanced up at him curiously. “For what?”

Oswald continued playing with the fork in his hand. The metal glinted as it caught a ray of sunlight, drawing Ed's eyes to it, and Oswald's voice softened.

“For caring.”

Ed abruptly looked away from the utensil, smiling down into his food, and Oswald could tell he was pleased. He found himself mirroring the expression as he resumed eating his own lunch, his insides warming as his stomach filled. He thought of endorphins, then, and the contagious effects of a simple smile. 

And unbeknownst to Oswald, that snugly shut door into his heart cracked itself open. Just a smidge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In complete disclosure, I'm not as happy with this chapter as I was with the first one; I moved a lot of things around and rewrote certain parts multiple times. Originally I just wanted to establish some kind of a daily routine, and then Plot Stuff got in the way and...yeah. This was the result. Hopefully it was okay for y'all? 
> 
> I'm SUPER excited about the next chapter though, so stay tuned for that! :)


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